Somehow, this has become our life, born from the darkest of circumstances, bred from the painful pull of addiction, and even so, I wouldn’t change a thing.

  Trey closes the paperback he’s reading, stands up, and takes my hand. We head to the parking lot, and it’s still odd to get in a car, rather than race down the steps to the subway. I buckle up, grunting playfully as I stretch the seat belt over my belly, and then I turn on the satellite radio, tuning in to a Katy Perry song.

  Trey rolls his eyes as he backs the car up.

  “What? Not cool enough for you? Do I need to play the college alternative station?”

  “You can play whatever you want,” he says. Then he pauses. “For the next four weeks.”

  “Ha. So you’re only going to be nice to me till I pop?”

  “Yup.”

  He navigates out of the lot, and then heads onto the main drag, toward Ocean Beach. The sidewalks are crammed with tourists and locals enjoying the late afternoon sun, high in the sky. Women in sundresses and men in cargo shorts wander in and out of the boutiques, bakeries, and cafés.

  I roll down the window, letting in the warm air. The station shifts to James Blunt’s “Bonfire Heart,” and I nearly shout. I remember when this song came out when I was in middle school and I fell in mad love with it. “I love this song!”

  I turn up the music, and he slows the car as we reach a red light.

  I start singing along about days like this, then look at Trey, rolling my hands, encouraging him to join in.

  “I don’t know the words,” he says.

  I lean in closer. “Well, I know them all, because this song reminds me of you and me. Because—” I take a beat, and wait for James Blunt to sing my favorite line, then I join in, “You light the spark—”

  Suddenly, I’m jerked forward, and there’s a loud crunch of metal against metal. Instinct kicks in, and I raise my hands to brace myself against the dashboard, but the seat belt snaps me back in place, slamming the back of my head against the headrest and sending a sharp, searing pain through my skull.

  The car stops running instantly. My pulse is quickening, and fear gallops across my skin, centering in my chest. My head pounds, and my heart races.

  “Are you okay?” Trey’s face is pale, all the color drained out.

  My hands go to my belly, and I nod. But I’m so shaken, and it feels like a firecracker is exploding behind my eyes.

  “Are you okay?” he repeats, his voice etched with all the worry I feel. “Say something. Talk to me.”

  “I think so. But my head hurts so much,” I moan, dropping my forehead into my shaky hands.

  I’m vaguely aware that there’s a knocking on his window. Trey rolls down the window, and I hear a girl’s voice. “I’m so sorry for hitting you. I feel terrible. Is everyone all right?”

  She’s so young, maybe a teenager, but I can’t even focus anymore, and the conversation lasts all of ten seconds as Trey says, “Just give me your number. I’ll call you later.”

  He starts the car, the engine rumbles to life, and he calls my doctor immediately.

  “Yes, I’ll take her there now,” he says into the phone. Then he tells me, “They want you to go to the hospital. To get checked out. Just as a precaution.”

  His voice is calm and strong. He’s unwavering as he lays a hand on my thigh, and I simply nod and close my eyes.

  Within minutes, we’re at the ER, and my head is still bursting with pain, but I’m not bleeding, my water hasn’t broken, my husband isn’t freaking out, and my baby is kicking me. Everything will be fine.

  He holds my hand the whole time as we wait to be seen, talking to me, reassuring me. Soon, a nurse with a clipboard calls my name and brings me back to a hospital room in the ER. Machines bleat out sounds, and nurses and doctors shuffle quickly in and out of rooms.

  “Is the baby okay?” Trey asks, as the nurse yanks the curtain around the bed.

  “Well, let’s just see,” the nurse says, and hooks me up to the heart monitor, where we’re rewarded with the most beautiful sound in the world: a loud, thumping heart. Soon, the obstetrician on call comes by, and after a quick exam, she pronounces mom and baby perfectly fine.

  “But let’s give her some Tylenol for that nasty headache,” the young doctor, so pretty she could be on a TV show, directs to the nurse. Then to me, she says, “And why don’t you go home and get some rest, sweetheart?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Trey says, answering on my behalf.

  An hour later, I’m feeling much better. I’m tucked in bed, and Debbie brings me a grilled cheese and chicken sandwich. I take a bite, and it’s delicious.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine. Seriously. The Tylenol worked, my head is better, and I don’t have any bruises or scratches or anything,” I say, holding up my arms for a display of all my scratchless-ness.

  “Good. That’s what I like to see. Now, eat your sandwich, and lie down.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re all seriously overreacting. The doctor said everything was fine.”

  She rolls her eyes back at me. “I am not overreacting, nor is your husband. It is our job to treat you like a queen, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

  “It was a tiny little fender bender. The doctors only checked me out because it’s standard, or something, for any pregnant patient to go to the ER after a car accident,” I say, repeating what the obstetrician told me.

  “Standard, schmandard. I want you to take it easy. Why don’t you plan on watching a movie with me tomorrow? Something sweet and easy. A romantic comedy. Nothing that’s going to make you cry,” she adds.

  “Will you make me popcorn?” I narrow my eyes, pretending I’m holding her hostage to my food demands.

  “Whatever you wish, sweetie.”

  “Popcorn it is, then,” I say, and then eat more of the sandwich.

  I let her take care of me, handing her the plate when I’m done, staying in bed. She leaves for her house, and Trey rejoins me, curling up next to me in bed.

  “So, that was a fun day,” he says, exhaling as he wraps his arms around me.

  “I’ll say. Did you call that girl who hit us?”

  “I was a little more concerned about you than the car,” he says. “I’ll call her tomorrow. I’m just glad you’re fine. How’s your head?”

  “Better. Tylenol is like a miracle drug,” I joke.

  “I gotta say, now that you’re safe and everything is fine, there was a moment there when I felt my heart stop. It was like all the air in the world was sucked out, and all I could feel was this terrible sense of déjà vu,” he says, shaking his head, as if he can rid himself of whatever memories are lurking there. “Even though this never happened before. But still, I felt it.”

  “Me too. If that makes sense,” I whisper.

  “But we’re here now, and you’re both good, and that’s all that matters. And hey, look on the bright side—we’ve had our big scare, right?” He smooths my hair, runs his fingers through it, and then plants a kiss on my forehead. “Sure, it was scary for a bit, but it was minor, and now here we are. You made it out all clear, and we’re on the other side. It’s all going to be fine now.”

  “Yes. Everything is going to be fine,” I say.

  “And I agree with Debbie. I want you to take it easy for the next few weeks.”

  “You’re already plotting behind my back,” I tease.

  He nods. “Yup. We are. You’re done with classes, and we want you to lie on the beach, read, play with the dog, watch movies—”

  “Basically, stay away from cars?”

  He smiles. “Exactly.”

  “We’ll see,” I say with a yawn. “I think I just want to curl up in the ocean breeze and fall asleep.”

  “Did you think I was going to try for a little action the night you’re all banged up from a car accident?”

  I laugh. “Oddly enough, it hadn’t even occurred to me that you would put the moves on me right now.”

  “I won’t. But if you want to sleep naked, I won’t complain.”

  “The same goes for you,” I tell him as I head to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. He does the same, then we return to the bedroom and strip off our clothes, and I pretend to do a sexy dance for him as he lies down on the covers. “Here’s that rain dance you said you wouldn’t mind.”

  He laughs, and reaches out a hand to pull me into bed. “And I don’t mind at all,” he says, then kisses my neck, my earlobe, my eyelids, soft, sweet, fluttery kisses that make me feel warm and safe, the perfect antidote to a stressful day. I kiss him back once, lingering on his minty breath, before I shift to my side, and he spoons me.

  Flesh to flesh, skin to skin, we drift off, and my head doesn’t hurt the next morning. As I stretch in bed, I feel back to normal—and a bit horny. Thanks to a full night’s sleep filled with incredibly dirty dreams, fueled by massive amounts of hormones cranking through my body, I am ready for a little something. And judging by the erection pressed against my back, Trey won’t need much convincing.

  I reach my hand back and stroke him once, twice, three times till he stirs.

  “Hmm. Good morning to me,” he murmurs, and kisses my neck, a sexy, sleepy morning kiss.

  “It will be soon,” I tell him.

  “Lucky me,” he says, looping his arms around me and cupping my breasts, squeezing them softly, then playing with my nipples.

  I moan lightly and wriggle against him. “I’m ready,” I whisper.

  “But how do you feel? After yesterday?”

  “Totally fine. Like new.”

  “Do you really think it’s a good idea to have sex after the car accident?”

  I roll my eyes. “It was a tiny fender bender, and I’m all good. I feel fabulous. Here, let me show you.” I take one of his hands and slide it between my legs. He groans as he feels how ready I am for him. “See? I am one hundred percent normal and fine. I am your standard order thirty-six-weeks-pregnant woman who still wants to have sex with her husband. And the doctor said I’m allowed. So count your blessings.”

  “One,” he says, as if he’s counting. Then he strokes me more, making me gasp as his fingers draw delicious lines across me. “I’ve lost count,” he whispers sexily, working me where I’m hot for him. “But that’s only because you distracted me with your tricks to have sex with me.”

  I laugh. “Yes, I tricked you by dreaming all night about you doing naughty things to me.”

  “Naughty things. Tell me more.”

  “Trey,” I begin.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can we do it from behind?”

  His hand freezes on my breast, and he tenses. “Really?”

  “Yes,” I say, and I know he’s thinking of that time in the kitchen at his apartment. And he’s worried. But I’m not. I trust him completely. I trust him with my whole heart. “I want to. Besides, I’m pretty sure it’s the only position that’ll work right now.”

  “Are you totally sure?”

  I turn to look him in the eyes. “So sure. I want this. I want you like this.”

  “I want you,” he says. “Any way I can have you.”

  We get out of bed only for him to line me up on all fours on the edge of the bed, my hands pressed into the mattress. He brushes my hair over my shoulder so he can kiss my neck as he edges his erection between my legs. I watch him as he enters me.

  “Mmm. This is the perfect wake-up call from my wife.”

  “I agree,” I say softly as he fills me up, and I shut my eyes, savoring the sensations, reveling in my need for him, my deep and hungry desire to be close to him right now, to feel him all the way inside me.

  He makes love to me like that, slow at first, then faster, his hands on my breasts, then between my legs. He kisses my shoulders, keeping me close, whispering my name, telling me he loves me, he wants me, he will always want to touch me. I lift my butt higher, giving him more room to rock into me, to drive deeper, and he does, bringing me closer with each thrust. All the while he’s here with me, nowhere else, and it feels fantastic. Like we’ve come full circle.

  And then we do.

  I spend the day doing nothing but lying on the beach with The Sheriff, and it’s blissful, watching kids build sandcastles, and dogs chase Frisbees, and women set up under umbrellas to read their paperback beach reads. Trey’s at work, my semester is over, and I want to enjoy this free time while I can.

  Besides, he and Debbie made it pretty clear they want me to do as little as possible. As the sun beats down on me, I can honestly say I don’t mind their directive. I don’t mind basking in the rays.

  I even fall asleep on a blanket with the dog next to me, but when I wake up under the hot afternoon sun, there’s a dull throb in my forehead again, a reminder that Tylenol will be my best friend for a few days. As I stand up to collect my blanket and beach bag, the ground tilts momentarily, and my vision goes fuzzy. But within seconds, the dark stars in front of my eyes fade and I’m fine. Must have been from the sun blinding me momentarily when I opened my eyes after napping.

  “Let’s head inside,” I say to The Sheriff. He stretches in that downward-dog style that only canines can truly master, then trots beside me through the sand as we head inside.

  I drop my bag on the kitchen table, and take two Tylenol. Then I root around in the fridge for a snack. I find an orange, grab a bowl, and return to the deck. As I peel it, I’m reminded that I’m sharing space with someone else, and that someone must have been kicking my ribs while I slept, because my side is killing me. I drop the orange peels in the bowl for a minute to rub the right side of my abdomen.

  “You have strong feet,” I say to my belly as I rub. “Because you made your mama really sore.”

  When Debbie stops by later, we sit on the couch and chat about her day and mine, then she cues up a romantic comedy, one she says is laugh-out-loud funny. She’s right but after a while, I can barely keep my eyes open. “I’m so tired,” I murmur, as I try to shift into a more comfortable position on my left side because the right still hurts.

  “The last few weeks are like that,” Debbie says, and turns the volume down as I doze off.

  The next couple of days continue in that same rhythm. I’m more tired than I’ve ever been, and my ribs are still so sore. My headache wakes me up each morning, and each time, I down a few red pills. I must have whacked my head harder than I’d thought on the headrest. My naps turn epic, the heavy kind that last for hours, and when I wake up from them, I feel sluggish and sleepier than when I started, a bone-heavy sort of fatigue.

  When Trey returns from walking The Sheriff on Sunday morning, he finds me in front of the bathroom mirror rooting around for the Tylenol, with a hand on my forehead, the other one on my ribs, and he asks what’s going on.

  “Stupid fender bender. My headache won’t go away,” I mutter. I start to return to the bed, but the floor is coming at my face, and I grab onto his shoulder, gripping him hard. He’s so fuzzy, all black and hazy like a TV on the fritz, and if I let go, I might fall because everything around me is bobbing up and down. He grabs me firmly, but carefully, and guides me back to bed.

  “I’m calling the doctor,” he says. “This isn’t normal for a minor car accident.”

  Two hours later, I’m diagnosed with severe preeclampsia.

  33

  Trey

  “But how does this happen?” I ask again, standing outside the ER with the doctor. I’m stuck on repeat, asking for the fiftieth time how Harley all of a sudden has high blood pressure during her pregnancy. He’s already told me how, but I refuse to accept the answer.

  “Some things just happen,” he says one more time, crisply enunciating each word.

  No. No. No. That’s what doctors say to explain all the bad shit in the world. That’s their reasoning for death and pain and heartbreak. Things happen. When I used to say things happened to my shrink, she called me on it. She practically smacked me, and told me to take responsibility for my actions. Why can’t doctors do the same? Things happen is a euphemism for people die.

  I hold my hands out wide, as if that will transform the information into something that makes sense. “How did she get preeclampsia?”

  “It happens to some women,” the doctor says calmly. He’s the OB on call for the practice, a tiny guy with a baby face, as if he’s never had to shave. He wears glasses and looks like he aced all his classes in medical school.

  Admittedly, that’s a good look for a doctor. But still…

  “She’s twenty-one years old. How does it happen to a twenty-one-year-old? Her doc in New York said her being young was the best thing she has going for her.”

  “And it still is,” he says.

  “Then why does she have this preeclampsia thing?”

  “Because one of the risk factors is being young. The risk of preeclampsia is higher for pregnant women who are younger than twenty, and for women in their first pregnancy.”

  “My wife isn’t younger than twenty. She is twenty-one,” I point out, as if this fact will suddenly clear up Harley’s health. She’ll sit up in bed, he’ll detach her from the machines, and he’ll send her home.

  But that’s not what he’s saying.

  “I understand,” he says calmly, nodding. “Even so, this is what we are dealing with. And technically, she has advancing preeclampsia.”

  “So, what’s next?”

  “She’s getting magnesium sulfate right now,” he says.

  “Right. I know. And then after that?”

  “My recommendation is that as soon as we stabilize her with the mag sulfate, which should be within a few hours, that we deliver the baby then. That’s the only treatment for preeclampsia.”

  I shudder. “Is that safe?”

  “She’s nearly thirty-seven-weeks pregnant, and that’s essentially full-term. When patients present with preeclampsia earlier in their pregnancies, this is about the gestational age we try to get them to. In her case, she’s there, so that’s very good. And at nearly thirty-seven weeks, the baby isn’t considered premature, so won’t need to be admitted to the NICU. You should be able to take the baby home with you.”